


Bullseye for the Wrecking Ball

by AliLamba



Series: It's too bad we're easy but don't tell our friends [1]
Category: Veronica Mars (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M, Gratuitous Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-02-11
Packaged: 2018-05-19 19:09:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5977954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliLamba/pseuds/AliLamba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Veronica is not going to do it again; she has standards, and Logan wears flip flops to parties. I mean, come on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bullseye for the Wrecking Ball

 

“You said you weren’t going to do it again.”

Veronica at first doesn’t hear Mac’s warning, but it’s because she’s distracted.

“What?” she shouts above the music.

Mac holds her gaze for a moment, then rolls her eyes.

“Your funeral.”

“I’m not going to do it,” she says.

Mac doesn’t respond, turns instead as she does some dancing in another direction. Veronica would frown at her back but she’s still distracted, and she glances back over at the guys doing keg stands in the next room.

“If you’re going to do it you might as well get it over with.”

“I said I wasn’t going to do it!”

Mac follows Veronica’s gaze, makes a show of being unimpressed by what Veronica is staring at. It’s dumb jock season at Hearst College, better known as Intro to Rush Week, and every Greek society on campus is celebrating their new pledges. Not that Mac or Veronica are there to pledge…whatever house they’re at that night. This is just their ritual, forged long ago as a way to score free booze and blow off steam at the end of the week. The couches are comfy, the music is loud, and if your commitment is to each other and not to making new friends, well…there are worse, and more expensive ways to spend your Friday nights.

Veronica tears her gaze away and finds Mac still staring. “It’s not like I need to get some, okay. I’m – we’re having a good time tonight! Girlfriends!” She adds a little pom-pom move Liz Lemon would be proud of.

“Girlfriends!” a voice joins in, and both girls turn and shout little squeals of delight as Wallace finds them in the crowd. They share a dorky group hug.

“Where’s Piz?” Veronica asks.

“Getting drinks.”

Mac punches Wallace’s arm. “You’re late! And Veronica’s already thinking of leaving me.”

“I am not!”

Mac looks pointedly towards the keg standers, and Wallace follows her gaze. He shakes his head, grinning. “Veronica Mars. Control yourself.”

“I’m not going to do it!”

“Sure you’re not.”

Wallace picks up Mac’s hand and spins her into a little waltz-type move he learned when his mom made him do cotillion in high school. Mac lets herself be dipped because she was forced into the same class. “Has he seen you yet?”

Veronica frowns, biting on the inside of her cheek. “Guys, c’mon, I’m here for you. Give me a little more credit than that, mmk.”

“That’s a no.”

“She hasn’t lit her flares yet. Pulled out her banner.”

“I did not! …bring my flares.”

Her friends laugh at her expense, and Veronica ignores them and keeps dancing. They’ve been friends since forever – well, since freshman year orientation, which feels like forever ago. Fate just meant for them to be together, they decided, because not only were they the only three on the campus tour to find their peppy orienteer absurd, but Veronica and Mac have been roommates since day one, and their nextdoor neighbor had tolerated their Arrested Development and Lost marathons like a champ. The day Wallace and his roommate Piz brought over popcorn and asked what the hell happened to Bai Ling was the day that cemented their bond forever.

Mac and Wallace are pretty invested in their tango, so Veronica’s attention again drifts to the next room. It’s bad timing, as it’s Logan’s turn to be hoisted above the keg, and his shirt rides…all the way up. It makes her cheeks flush and stuff happen way below her navel, and she knows her friends are right. Damn it.

“Anyone want some beer?”

Her friends burst out laughing.

“So fucking predictable!” Mac shouts, bass thumping in the background, but there’s no sting to her words. Veronica sticks her tongue out, flips them a middle finger, and is about to wander into the next room when Piz finds them, doing some complicated handiwork with four cups of beer that would make any Oktoberfest fraulein proud.

“Girlfriends!” They echo him like it’s their mating call. It sort of is, if their version of mating involved going four spoons in on a Vermonster.

Veronica huffs out a short sigh and helps him with the drinks, looking over his shoulder.

Stupid Logan Echolls is holding his hands up for high fives after his triumphant stand on the keg, and he’s receiving major kudos. Piz starts talking, but Veronica doesn’t quite pay attention. She’s mostly noticing that Logan’s shirt hasn’t fallen all the way into place, and two or three of his abs are still visible. She wets her lips.

“Has Logan seen her yet?” Piz is shouting at Wallace and Mac, who’ve separated enough to take their drinks and clink plastic in cheers.

Wallace is shaking his head. “No, don’t think so. Otherwise we’d be down to a trio already.”

Veronica rolls her eyes emphatically. “Guys, come on. Give a girl some credit. He’s – I mean – he’s doing keg stands! He’s wearing flip flops! I have standards.”

“Yeah,” Mac grins, making eye contact with anyone but her. “You’ve had standards at least three times this semester already.”

Wallace and Piz offer high fives.

Veronica docks her hand on her hip. “Guys. I came here tonight to have fun with you. Piz, weren’t you going to tell me all about – that thing? That you were telling me a little about yesterday?”

“Oh yeah, that thing. That thing went bad. Ope, story’s over.”

“See ya.”

“Guys!” It’s a plaintive whine, and her friends grin deeply into their beers as they drink and ignore her pain. Piz is the first to speak.

“C’mon Veronica. It’s the same old story every time. We stood a chance before he showed up, but – well, you’re useless to us once his shirt comes off.”

“And you know it’s going to come off,” Wallace adds.

There’s a loud swell of cheering from the next room, and everyone turns to look.

Mac points a finger. “And there it goes.”

“You really have to appreciate that some things don’t change.”

“It’s sort of like its own tradition. Like Christmas.”

Her three friends hold up their beers. “Merry Christmas Veronica.”

She tries to be mad at them. Really, it’s like they’re kicking her out. But it’s like – it’s not like they don’t have a point. Yes, they’ve had this weekly tradition since freshman year, but at some point during that first year Veronica was feeling randy and this one dumb frat boy wouldn’t leave her alone. And while at first he’d been horrifically annoying (how someone survived the Epic Veronica Burndown she’ll never know), but he was annoying and annoyingly _cute_. And then sometime around the third party they both happened to be at together she remembered his name. And by the seventh party Logan’s persistence paid off and she let him talk to her for more than two minutes, and she was only like twenty-five percent bitch to him. And then the tenth time they ran into each other he almost brought some other blonde home, and that pissed her off more than it should’ve, and she insisted he take her home instead.

She wouldn’t call it a tradition, but, it was a fairly amazing coincidence that whenever they ran into each other at a party…they managed to leave it together. It was also amazing that after two years at Hearst the tradition hadn’t bucked.

Maybe she was an old-fashioned girl at heart.

“Nope I’m not going to do it. I’m not going to do it! See, look at me, not going there, dancing with you instead.” She holds up her beer and shakes her hips a little to prove her point. “Dancing me. Not leaving my friends. Not the worst.”

“Oh isn’t this cute. She’s actually trying.”

“I give her four minutes.”

“Guys!”

“Oh, we made her mad. Better make it two.”

Wallace and Piz tickle each other’s palms in this really annoying _aren’t we cool and smart_ gesture. Veronica looks to Mac for support but gets a shrug. “I told you,” she says. “It’s your funeral.”

Veronica frowns at the three of them. “And you call yourselves my friends,” she accuses. When they don’t even wilt, she takes a quick sip of her beer. “You know what? I don’t need to take this abuse. And I’m out of beer. I think I need a refill.”

She’s not even close to having an empty cup and everyone knows it, confirming the knowledge with barks of laughter and _told you so_ ’s. She shares an apologetic/please understand smile with Mac, the only person whose approval she really needs, but Mac shoos her off and starts grinding on Wallace.

Veronica releases a shaky breath as she turns away from them, heading toward the keg. She pours her beer into a potted plant as she goes, because she does want an excuse. She can’t imagine – or really, she’s not ready for – a situation where she could just go up and _talk_ to Logan Echolls. That would be way too official.

 

Logan is coordinating boilermakers with half a dozen other guys also inconsistently clothed in shirts. On the count of _three!_ they drop tiny glasses of whiskey into tall glasses of beer, and then they chug en masse. Beer slides down his throat and down his chest, forming little rivers through his sparse chest hair, toward his so very happy trail. It is distracting as _hell_ – and Veronica thinks she was probably always doomed.

Logan is the first to finish and he throws his fists up again as if he’s actually accomplished something to rival the moon landing. High fives, _damn bro!_ s and a few fist bumps later and Veronica’s within talking distance.

“Way to go bro,” she imitates their deeper tone of voice, and a few people turn in her direction, including Logan. His gaze locks onto hers, all tractor beam in shades of amber and brown, and a slow smile creeps across his face.

She doesn’t even really see how Dick rolls his eyes in an overly dramatic sort of way.

“Oh jesus not again. C’mon Veronica, really? We like  _just_ got here.”

“Hey give her a break,” Mercer interjects. He’s probably Logan’s most creepy friend and that says something, more about how everything about Logan should turn her off but it doesn’t.

“Yeah give me a break.” She holds up her empty plastic cup. “I just needed a refill.”

Logan’s smile upgrades to a grin, and he flexes his biceps. She notices.

“A refill? Ronnie. C’mon. Last week you asked for the time. Before that it was a quarter for the payphone. You could at least try to be creative.”

“Why, do you have a quarter for the payphone?”

“What – “ Dick sputters, instinctually palming his pockets. “Nice try, Veronica Mars. They don’t even _have_ payphones anymore.”

Logan cocks an eyebrow. “He checked.”

“Did not!”

“For like three weeks.”

Veronica grins.

“So…about my refill?”

Dick makes some disparaging sounds through his teeth while Logan offers his hand for her cup. Veronica takes a step closer to give it to him, carefully avoiding skin contact. Mercer is already doing something else, making some conversation with some other people, and Dick is slowly giving up the fight. Logan uses way more muscles than are strictly necessary – or at least, he involves all of them in isolated bursts of attention-seeking flexion – to put beer into her cup. She takes it with a grateful sip, eyes sweeping over his skin in a quick gesture she knows he’ll notice. His dark eyes reveal he did, notice that is, and he bites his lower lip while dropping the keg tap.

“You know what?” he says. “I gotta find a payphone.”

“What!” Dick shouts, aghast and grumpy. “That’s – come on. That’s worse than the refill line! Logan!”

Logan and Veronica are already walking toward the front door. Veronica grins up at him and deposits her cup of beer on the first available surface.

“Think you forgot something in there,” Veronica chides, when they step into the crisp autumn air and Logan slides his hands into his pockets. He grins lopsidedly.

“Did I?”

He’s still not wearing his shirt.

Her own amused grin blossoms, and she fights with the laugh in her throat. “See if I take you to Red Lobster then.”

“I had no idea this was so official. If you wanted to take me to dinner you only had to ask.”

She snorts. “You’re _so_ not worth lobster.”

He flexes his pectoral muscles, and she rolls her eyes, throat still tight with amusement.

“I hear it’s shrimp week.”

“Maybe you’re worth imitation crab. Maybe. On picture day.”

“And yet you insist you have a shellfish allergy.”

She runs into his shoulder on purpose. “It’s a selective shellfish allergy.”

He stops her then, accomplished by an arm around her shoulder and his other arm around her waist. Both twist around her body, fingers in her hair and in the gap made between her shirt and shorts when her shoulders hunch with – not quite surprise – but appreciative shock. His kiss is searing, wanting, hungry and hot, and she thinks she might give in on the grass lawn if it was even a little more private. It’s been a long, shitty week, and she meant to have told her friends all about it over drinks and loud, crappy dance music. But then Logan was there, and the only thing she could think that would make her feel better was a few well-deserved orgasms.

“My place or yours, crab cake?”

She laughs into a warm exhale. “My roommate’s out for a few hours. She went to this party with some friends; it should be a fun time.”

“They must be some friends.”

“Literally they are the best. You should meet them sometime.”

He kisses her nose. “I dunno I’m hard to impress.”

She kisses him again then, really just giving him the whole hog, mouth open and tongue involved and little mewing noises in the back of her throat.

“My place,” she breathes against his parted lips, and he nods, like an idiot.

His whole sticky body is pressed against her front, and when he pulls back her shirt sticks to the beer still on his skin.

It’s awful, really, how ridiculous he is and how he’s so, incredibly wrong for her. She gets great grades and likes Mac’s art films on occasion. Her iPod is full of Arcade Fire and Postal Service – not, she assumes, whatever Logan is probably into. Does Ja Rule still make music? She doesn’t know. She does know that his pecs and his arms and his _dick_ really do it for her though, that there’s no one else in her life right now that does it for her more, and that tonight she’d like to add one and one together to make two.

He takes her hand and leads her across campus, and they jog and giggle the whole way because it’s so fucking obvious what they’re about to do to everyone they pass and it’s absolutely fucking _fabulous_ how little they care. It takes all of ten minutes but by the time they’re on the front steps to her dorm she’s breathless and that throbby artery between her thighs is _insane_ – because Logan’s back is _gorgeous_ – and she wants to rake it with her fingernails and leave angry red marks all over it.

Logan is a great fuck because (apart from the obvious, the whole generous oral skills and actually paying attention to her needs kind of thing) he doesn’t push it. He doesn’t try to spend the night or get her number, and while they’re climbing the stairs she wonders if it’s odd, that he’s never pushed his way onto her cell phone, that he’s never called her just to chat. Is it weird that they hook up at parties but that he’s not pulling for anything more?

These are the thoughts she’s having, when Logan pulls her in front of her own dorm room door, pushes her hips into its solid wood, and kisses her. He’s only slightly out of breath and he’s meticulous and slow about the kiss at first, and then that slowness is playing on a very important nerve in her groin, lighting the match, blowing on the ember, so that by the time his tongue is tagging her lips she’s really, really into it. And when he starts kissing her neck she starts jamming her hand into her purse for her key, not finding it fast enough for her god damn liking because in another few seconds she’d fuck him in the _hallway_ for crying out loud, but then her fingers jam into the hard metal bits and she’s turning and shoving the key into the lock. Her eyelids flutter as she twists the key because Logan’s found that spot – holy shit that spot on her neck – and it should be fucking illegal how good it feels when he kisses her there. She’s ninety percent sure that her bra strap goes there, that the sash of her book bag goes there, that every once in awhile there’s an itch around there that she has to scratch, but fucking hell – Logan’s lips and it’s like that spot on her neck never existed before. It’s a sling shot boomerang hand grenade to her groin and…god damn.

She leans her hips back so her ass presses into his pelvis, just enough to hear him groan into her skin and feel his erection through his pants. _Yes, please._ The door opens and they both step inside, and the only reason-based part of her brain still left functioning grabs the keys out of the lock before Logan slams the door shut behind them.

Veronica is already dropping her bag to the ground and throwing her keys wherever, toeing off her shoes and ripping off her socks. Logan crosses the room in three easy strides, hands going to the side of her neck and the back of her head so he can kiss her some more, and it’s all-fucking-consuming this kiss, and heat goes everywhere – into every toe and every hair follicle. Shit she would let herself combust right there if she didn’t know it could be _even better_.

Veronica’s hands go to his arms, then his chest, and she breaks the kiss with a soft laugh.

“God you’re so sticky.”

He echoes her breathless expression of humor. “Pretty sure your room doesn’t have a private shower. And I sort of have an _If You Give a Mouse a Cookie_ relationship with women and showers.”

“I knew we should’ve gone to your place. I have no cookies here.”

“You’re just going to have to lick me clean then.”

It’s a challenge, and a stupid one at that, and she raises a questioning eyebrow at him just because. He holds her gaze with a stupid smirk, and she gives in with a big stupid grin. Veronica leans forward. The top of her head barely goes to his collar bone anyway, so it’s easy to place a soft kiss on his sternum, and all of a sudden it hits her that she’s been thinking about licking this disgusting beer off him since she saw it so sloppily spilled there maybe twenty minutes before. She is so fucked.

Her tongue slides across his warm skin, up and down his sternum, across his pec to his small, pebbled nipple. She swirls her tongue around it and he hisses – she knows he’s not a _huge_ nipple play guy in the receiving sense but he’s clearly into it now – and she kisses it the way she loves to be kissed. Then because she’s a hedonistic jerk she bites down – gently, well, because she’s not a total jerk – and his mouth drops open on a loud exhale.

“That’s enough,” he warns. “You’re just going to have to live with the rest of the mess.”

She looks up at him through her lashes, breath hot on his chest through parted lips. “I think I can do that.”

Then he pulls her shirt over her head.

He’s not even shy about the way he dives for her breasts, leaning down to place his whole face against _her_ sternum, fingers fumbling a little at her spine to get the bra unclasped. And when it does come undone he rips it off, grabs her around her small waist and kisses his way to her nipple, groaning deep in the back of his throat as it hardens under his lips, and pulling her toward him isn’t enough, so he pulls her up, off the ground, and her legs wrap around his hips as he kisses her breast deeply, tongue flicking across the tip and then lathing around her areola, and her thighs really squeeze his sides because _fuck_ it feels great. Again, that delicious throb between her hips flares, and she knows that it would take minutes to orgasm like this, but she doesn’t because – there is more. From experience, she knows there is more, but fuck does it feel good just like this and she could let him do it forever.

Her head lolls back when muscle strength focuses elsewhere, and – how does he do it he must work out nine times a day – he holds her up with one arm around her back and palms her other breast, turning their bodies and making steps in her room that she barely comprehends because things happening on earth besides what Logan is doing to her nipple and what Logan is doing to her other breast just _barely_ exist at that moment, particularly when he uses his soft lips and some suction to gently pull on her nipple.

Then she can feel his abs quiver as he uses them, and he’s bending her back onto her twin bed. She thinks it’s a god damn shame and probably totally on purpose that college dorms only provide twin mattresses, but she’s not going to complain about the price. Well, now. Right now she’s not going to complain about the price. Not when it has springs and a generically soft surface and when Logan is still nearly bringing her to orgasm over and over and it’s barely been ten minutes – not when the things she has to think about are holding out for the good one yet to come. Logan still has one hand gently massaging her breast, thumb and forefinger teasing her dry nipple when his mouth moves, and then he’s pressing little stamps of his lips down her torso like he 100 percent approves of her skin.

His fingers find the snap of her shorts, and he twists it open slowly, tongue somewhere around her navel. His tongue does dip into her navel and she squirms beneath him, hips going back and forth because the warmth in her core is _pulsating_ now, and even she knows how drenched she is below the belt. Fingertips curl into the waist of her shorts and he’s dragging the material down her hips, underwear leaving, along for the ride. When the shorts are at her ankles she realizes Logan is kneeling at the edge of her bed, and – _fuck yes_ – she knows what’s coming next.

Merry fucking Christmas, Veronica.

She’s ingloriously naked in front of him, beneath him, and there’s a lamp near the door burning its electric light through the room. Logan’s eyes are practically glowing, sort of like the way the moon reflects on dark lakes at night. He’s very, fucking, into this, and he kisses all around the edges of her trim pubic hair like he’s framing a picture. Veronica cards his hair impatiently, and then she bites her lip when he finally gets close, and then he finally does the gentlemanly thing of kissing her – there – mother fucking fuck right fucking there.

Veronica’s lips pop open with a heavenly sigh and then a less heavenly moan, and she tries, she really tries, not to grab at Logan’s head, making fists with her hands as Logan tongues her clit. It feels fucking amazing, and heat churns in her groin, roiling faster and with more and more heat the longer he goes on, the longer the flat of his tongue drags against her slowly, then alternates to a few quick flicks of the tip, then goes back to that heavy, wonderful, _heaviness_ that has her weak in the knees and just also in general. Logan’s observant in that annoyingly wonderful way that makes her want to lick beer off his chest hair, and he notices her hands, grabbing her wrists and pulling them to his head anyway – and – fuck him – just go right ahead and fuck him – because she orgasms almost immediately. One second his tongue is gliding over her clit again and again; the warm, wet muscle lapping at her so god damn intimately, and the next she’s allowed to _hold his head between her thighs_ and that sort of power trip just shouldn’t be given so willy nilly, because by holding his head against her clit and grinding onto his face, her orgasm is a not-so-minor explosion she was not prepared for until she is shouting expletives through clenched teeth.

Logan, as it has been said, is a fucking gentleman, and he rides with her through the aftershocks, his tongue slowing as it glides along her slit with little detours around her clitoris. He really is far too good at this, and she thinks that maybe if her friends _only knew_ , well then, a) she would be fucking insanely jealous and they would probably not be her friends, and b) they would totally understand. She pets his hair, curls the short strands around his ears, and then hooks her fingers around his jaw and tugs him upward.

They kiss again, and she can taste herself on his tongue, that god damn magical piece of whatever muscle, and she hopes he appreciates how good he makes her feel. Her hand traipses down his torso to his hips, and she palms his hard length through his shorts, her fingers finding his width and tracing him up and down. Logan hisses through his teeth and he stops kissing her, and she mildly considers returning the favor he so generously bequeathed upon her. She’s gone down on Logan plenty of times, and she loves it, but she has this weird tit-for-tat idea in the back of her mind, and also she’s just selfish. So she pulls down the zipper of his shorts, digs her fingers through the layers of fabric, and then curls her hand around his cock again so that Logan makes a wonderful noise with his throat.

Yup. She likes this. She likes that he _loves_ this. Veronica slides her hands up and down a few times but he really is so completely hard he’s almost throbbing, and she wonders if he’s also had a shitty week and this is as much of a relief for him as it is for her. Veronica gives in and undoes the button at the top of his fly, peeling the shorts off his hips until only his boxer briefs are really in the way. She thinks that if they don’t waste too much time it shouldn’t be too hard to get another orgasm from him, so after tugging his boxers down another inch she flips onto her stomach and reaches for her bedside table. Inside she finds one of the few condoms she keeps in stock, and without turning around she twists her arm so that Logan can grab it from her fingers. She can hear his clothes falling off (the mental picture is enough to warm her all over) and then feels one of his hands on the back of her knee. It slides up her thigh (he must be rolling on the condom with the other hand and she groans just thinking about it, reconsidering the whole favor return idea because his cock is beautiful and she loves it in her mouth), and then his hand is massaging her ass. First it’s one cheek, then the other, and then Logan’s knee is pressing between her thighs so she has to spread them, and his thumb is pressing into her warm, wet opening.

Veronica groans headily into her mattress and it mixes with a _fuck, Veronica_ from behind her head. Then Logan is pushing his knee into the crux of her thighs and moving her around the bed a little so she’s not at such an odd angle, and he can climb up on the twin mattress between her legs and spread her thighs with purpose. He leans over her then, that sparse, sticky chest hair tickling her shoulders, and he kisses the side of her head. He bites the shell of her ear, then her earlobe, and his tongue flicks her earlobe so she moans again, _remembering_. She pushes her hips up, finds his erection, and moans again, inching her hips back more slowly now, because _yes, please_.

Logan exhales into a shaky sigh and seems to forget all about kissing her for a moment. One arm supporting his weight on the mattress next to her breast, he guides himself toward her. The swollen head of his erection penetrates her slowly, testing her wetness, and then Logan sinks the rest of the way in, still slowly, making sure there’s enough lubrication without having to add any of his own.

It feels – _so_ – _fucking_ – _good_. Veronica sighs into her pillow it feels so good, her thighs spreading even farther as if she could make the sensation go on indefinitely, though they both bottom out. At this angle he’s deep – he’s really fucking deep – and the head of his cock presses into her cervix and his balls brush against her exposed clit. It’s a bad, desperately good combination, and when Logan eases in and out of her again she knows that second orgasm is not going to be a problem. Logan’s other arm comes to rest against the other side of her torso, so his wrists glance against the edges of her breasts. She groans as he fills her again, then again, each time just minutely more quick and efficient than the one before.

She leans herself up on her elbows, not knowing why, and then she’s pushing backward until she’s on her knees in front of him, and instead of having his weight anchored on the bed he’s holding onto her hips, and then one of his hands slides between her thighs and starts massaging her clit with wet fingertips, and that churning of heat is really getting going again and it’s pretty unfair that he can do it so easily. Veronica’s eyes are shut tight, sensation her only real driving force motivating her actions, as Logan pushes into her again and again and again and again. She pushes back, timing the strokes, and she knows it’s going well when he repeats his _fuck, Veronica_ mantra with a delirious little groan of pleasure. It turns her on that she’s turning _him_ on, and the heat really blooms between her thighs. His fingers working her over in the metaphorical and physical sense, until she’s biting her lower lip because – _fuck_ – he’s going to do it again, and it’s almost just not fair. But the angle’s not one hundred percent right anymore, only like ninety nine and that’s one percent more than she wants to think about, so she grabs the wrist that’s touching her and pulls it down by her head, so when she starts falling toward the mattress he falls with her, and – _yes, thank fuck_ – it’s that delicious, almost just too deep fullness that takes some accommodation on her part but it feels just so fucking good, and she pulls her hips forward and back to show him how great it feels.

Logan groans a heady _“Fuck! Veronica, fuck!_ ” into her ear and she knows she’s made the right choice, and she has to physically restrain herself from tipping over the brink. She pushes back, grabbing at his hips to compel him to really let loose, and Logan is a fucking mind reader because he picks up the pace to just what she wants it, and she lets out an ingloriously good moan, long in her throat but almost catching twice a second as he rams into her, her orgasm churning right inside her pelvis, tauntingly close.

Logan’s cock is dragging against the walls of her vagina in this wholly consuming, all nerve endings on high alert sort of way so that she’s not thinking about anything but how close she is to falling apart underneath him as he pummels her inside and out, thighs slapping against her ass like a fucking enthusiastic ovation. And then Logan’s tipping closer to her, his arm is just outside her head, the hot skin of his torso is sliding just above her back, and his mouth is just above her ear, and it’s not enough to have him penetrating her, but he’s literally everywhere – his raggedy breath is all she hears, the image of his fucking hot body is all she can conjure, and the feeling of his cock inside her is all she feels – she touches her own clit – and…and…and that’s it.

It’s a slow fucking death, this second one, and it lasts over the several seconds it takes to moan out a portmanteau of his name and some swear word.

The delicious feeling of Logan finding his own release follows her quickly, because she can feel him swell as her own orgasm is shuddering through her muscles, and he grabs her hip with one hand in a way that is just not too hard. She grins lazily into her pillow. Logan is still for a long moment, his weight just hovering around her on all sides. Then he collapses on top of her in an overly affected way, his front to her back, and he’s not even that sticky anymore because they’re both a little sweaty. Probably him more than her; he did most of the work this time, and she’s damn thankful and not at all ashamed.

Veronica grunts.

“Logan,” she huffs. He is heavy. “I don’t mean to be a jerk, but, you ever consider going to the gym? I mean geez.”

He rounds his stomach into her back in the way people can, and she grins laughingly and tries to roll over. He doesn’t let her. “Logan!” she squeals. “Help, you’re so out of shape I can’t breathe! Too many cheddar bay biscuits!” She’s squirming a little, until Logan hisses sharply, grabs her haphazardly, and winces. Ah, right. He’s still inside of her. Veronica flexes her muscles around him consolingly and the hiss morphs into a weird mix of pain and purr.

Another half minute, and he pulls out, but instead of getting up all at once he just rolls onto his back. It is just a twin mattress, but they sort out the details, and then Logan’s head is in the crook of Veronica’s shoulder so the edge of her breast is almost resting on his temple, and she can run her hands lazily through his hair. They are both still totally naked, but the afterglow is a wonderful thing.

“Hey,” she says, all of a sudden. “Why don't I have your phone number?”

Logan doesn’t answer all at once, but then he tilts his head so they can make eye contact over her arm and shoulder and breast.

“Why don't I have yours?”

She holds his gaze. “Because of my shellfish allergy.”

Logan grins, and after awhile, turns away and closes his eyes.

Veronica is still rolling that information over and over in her head. Why doesn’t she have his number? Not that she’d use it, really, but – seriously. They’ve had sex in pretty much every position there is to have sex, and she still couldn’t reach him on a random Tuesday night if she felt like it.

Logan gets up in a way that jars her from her train of thought, and walks across the room to get rid of the condom. He’s gloriously naked, tall, tan, and muscled in a way she didn’t think was very important to her. It’s still not (that important to her), but, damn, when you have the option…right?

“I’m serious though.”

Logan finds his boxers on the ground with his eyes, and then crosses the room to grab them. When he leans down, though, she grabs his outstretched arm, and makes him make eye contact with her.

“You like me, right?”

“I do like you. I’ve liked you twice enough already. Would you like me to like you _more?_ ”

Her breath catches in her throat. _More?_ Her first thought is _yes please_ and her second is _I’m not a machine._

She tries to frown at him, but it gets tangled up in her self-satisfied smile. And besides – what is she even saying? _You like me?_ Are they twelve again? Is this recess in the schoolyard? Are they passing notes?

Veronica lets go of his arm, and lets him tug on his boxer briefs. He pauses before putting on his shorts, hands resting on his hips as he looks down at her naked on the bed. She doesn’t feel remotely self-conscious.

“I’m just saying – as far as party hook ups go, we’re pretty exclusive.”

“I’m sorry, is that a good thing? Were you looking for exclusive?”

His tone is jerky, and when she looks up at him, he looks more surprised than anything. They hold each other’s gaze for a long moment, Logan’s expression indiscernible as he works over an idea in his head, and Veronica tries to organize her thoughts about exclusivity and the fact she’s only had sex with one person the entire time she’s been at Hearst.

“Veronica, did you – did you have any idea that I was in your poli-sci class last semester?”

Her eyebrows shoot up. _What?_

“Granted, there were about eight hundred people in that class, but, well I was one of them.”

She still doesn’t quite believe him. He drags his hand over his chin.

“To be fair it took me a week to notice. We hooked up that first weekend back on campus, and at first I thought I was just seeing you places.” He shrugs. “It had happened before, which reminds me, if you ever meet a girl named Parker at Delta Gamma, don’t mention you know me. But anyway, it was just – you were there, and I was there, and we were in the same place twice a week.”

She furrows her brow, trying to place him, thinking back to any of those thirty-odd times she could’ve seen him in that giant lecture hall. She can’t believe it’s possible she would’ve _missed him_.

“I don’t believe you.”

He raises his eyebrows at her. “You broke the curve on every damn test, Veronica. Dr. Cooper went on and on about how no one had scored a hundred percent on his midterm _ever_ , before you.”

Veronica chews on the inside of her cheek. She feels the urge to cover up, all of a sudden, and she picks at the duvet cover.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Logan is still standing at the edge of her bed, looking down at her, making no move to put on the rest of his clothes.

“I guess I just figured…you would notice me. I mean, we found each other all the time. Remember Halloween, and you were dressed in that giant Tweedle Dee outfit?” She does remember, or more vividly, she remembers Logan making creative use of her red clown nose. Logan shrugs again, but with one shoulder this time, and she can tell he’s actively working through some sort of emotion. “But you didn’t. So I figured…well, that you didn’t want to take me to Red Lobster. That you didn’t want my phone number. And if all you wanted to do was hook up with me, well, then…”

She looks up at him, which is a mistake, because he’s looking at her so seriously, and she’s never seen him look so vulnerable. She doesn’t want to hear what’s in his throat to say next, so she sits up all of a sudden, and then stands, and goes hunting for her shirt.

“Look, it’s not a big deal,” she starts, but all of the things on the floor are blurring together. “I mean, it sort of makes sense that we don’t push this. I mean, it’s great now right? And Dick doesn’t like me, and we barely make sense together anyway, and I can’t even do a keg stand, so – “

He grabs her then, pulls her into a hug and then a kiss. She wishes it wasn’t so easy to get wrapped up in his kiss, but it is. It always has been.

“Those are learnable skills, Veronica.”

She huffs out a breathless laugh. “Pretty sure when Dick makes a grudge it’s a grudge for life.”

“Yeah. Not sure he ever forgave Yoshi Story for being so hard to beat.”

Veronica grins.

“I’m serious, Logan.” He sobers. “You don’t want to get to know me, not really.” Why and how are they even talking about it? This isn’t par for the course. He should be on his way home right now. Or they should be poking at each other through a haze of heady orgasmic afterglow on the bed, or ordering pizza.

Logan breathes in deeply through his nose.

“Pretty sure I know you well already,” he argues. “You like it – when I kiss the tip of your nose – “ he demonstrates, “ – it always makes you smile. And you don’t like letting people see you smile, at least not all the way. Whenever you smile really genuinely you can’t make eye contact at the same time. And you look amazing naked. Just – fucking unreal, really, and I _hope_ not everyone knows that about you because I’m greedy and self-centered and you should know that about me.” She grins, and Logan licks his lips. “And I bet no one knows that when I…when I kiss your neck…” That spot on her neck nearly burns then, all of a sudden, and it’s either a shameful burn or an eager burn, she’s not sure, but Logan quenches both thoughts by placing his lips there, and her whole body shivers. “Just right here,” he whispers. “You fucking _love_ that.”

Veronica leans away. “That doesn’t mean we should exchange numbers.”

“No, but, _I really like you and we should go to Red Lobster_ is usually sufficient.”

It’s so, absurdly stupid, that Veronica’s mouth goes dry.

“You do?” _Like me?_ She can’t even finish the sentence.

Logan nods, looking into her eyes, then at her lips. He kisses her softly. “I really do, Veronica Mars. I really like you more than people should like other people.”

She sort of laughs. “What is that supposed to mean,” she breathes.

“It means that I sort of love you.”

She tenses then, all her muscles freezing in place, and Logan kisses the side of her neck under her ear, then her hair, and across her forehead. When she looks into his eyes his expression is unreadable – not cold, necessarily, but, sort of guarded, and all at once she gets that he’s told her the truth, and that he really doesn’t expect her to say anything in return. And she’s so terrified all of a sudden that she’s not sure she can speak at all, let alone try to navigate some sort of complicated sentiment like _love_.

“You’re crazy.”

He smiles halfway. “I’ve been called worse. By you, I might add.”

She grins a thankful, relieved grin, heaviness lifted. “Very mature. And here I thought you were the cave man.”

“See? Just like that.”

She grins fully then, ducking her head in a way that proves Logan right. He still has his arms around her, she’s still naked, and he’s still in his boxers. It’s totally bizarre, to be told that you’re loved like that, but maybe it’s not bizarre at all.

“Logan,” she starts to say, and then gives up almost immediately. “I’m really not good at this.”

For a moment he doesn’t respond. Just shrugs, and holds her tighter. “We’ll start slow. Cheddar bay biscuits okay with you? I really do think it’s shrimp week.”

“Yeah,” she says, smiling, and she’ll have to text Mac that Logan is staying the night. “That sounds great.”

 


End file.
